Water fell from the sky, injuring no less than three hundred in the first five minutes. We rush back to the colony, a quick march to the safety of the ancient pyramid created long ago by our ancestors. There will have to be reconstruction. There's always things to be rebuilt after the rain.

We are one. We serve ourselves as commanded by our leader. We serve her. We are not individuals. We are the cogs of a greater machine, an idea infinitely larger than ourselves. When one of us falls, we replace the part of our masterpiece without question, thousands stand in line to take the position. We are all eager. We are prepared.

The rain has stopped and we venture back into the open to gather our fallen. There will be no service. The dead will continue to serve us after they've crossed over. They will be recycled. We will give no thanks. None are needed. This was always expected. This is the way it has always been. So, it shall always be.

And so has the time come to expand our empire. Our mother births angels to go forth into the unknown and settle. They will not tell our story. They shall only speak of progress. They shall speak proudly of the idea that unites us all, that gives us purpose.

As quickly as they came, the angels depart. The flapping of their wings signals to us the exodus taking place. Amidst the hum of effort, countless silhouettes cast against a blue unlike any we've ever seen, we continue about our work, hoarding rations, tending to the young, returning the remaining corpses to the great construct. There is no rest. We do not sleep.

We live for our idea. We die for our idea. And when our time ends, we will meet elsewhere to bathe in the glow of pride rendered by a job well done.

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